Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!
“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forth
Than have his eyrie for a prison tower.
There on the mountains of the stormy north
More glad to soar, than in bright sunny bower
With chain of silken fetters idly bound,
Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.
“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching force
Of soul-like cadence, that was wont to bring
The crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep source